


Ceremonials

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Awards, Celebrations, F/F, Formalwear, Longing, One Shot, Pining, Season/Series 02, awards ceremony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 14:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Governor and Deputy attend an awards ceremony.





	Ceremonials

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoansPencils](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansPencils/gifts).



> This is a gift for a good friend of mine. We've spent countless hours crying over doges, memes, and bad taxidermy. You're a brilliant musician and I can't wait for you to find your own success! Happy Belated Birthday, Erin. Thanks for screaming into the void with me. Hugs. 
> 
> I based this fic off the 2015 ICPA Correctional Excellence Awards held in Melbourne. What I've written is a fictional reimagining of an awards ceremony. Nothing factual or realistic about it.

Round tables establish a court, if not a hierarchy. Big names and names-to-be occupy each seat. For many, this is an opportunity to network and climb their petty way to the top of the ladder. Soft, classical music serenades the room. Chopin, if one pays attention closely and Governor Joan Ferguson always does.

Mindful of the crowd, she studies as much as she scrutinizes. A table is set with polished crystal. A vase in the center holds a last-minute catered bouquet. The scent of lilies and daisies is overpowered by the reek of cologne, sweat, and scandal. With the annual meeting and conference held in Melbourne, Joan Ferguson has the honor of receiving the ICPA Correctional Excellence Awards. Someone allocated funds to provide for the event while the imprisoned commiserate over the misery business. The committee narrowed down the nominees. She just so happens to be a recipient. Having surpassed the objectives, the President's Award belongs to her.

Little desire keeps her here for the awards ceremony. There’s work to be done in Wentworth. Yet, Joan finds this to be a necessity in the grand scheme she’s concocted. As a common courtesy, she has invited Vera to be her plus one.

Sycophants make their way around the room. She doesn’t waste her breath on false pleasantries. In the fashion of a monument, her arms fold behind her back. Chin pointed, nose upturned, her lips purse. Soon, she’ll take her seat.

Vera Bennett studies the scene in silent wonder. For the rest of her life, she would remember this moment. Incessant chattering distracts her. Her eyes constantly wander from body to body, from back to back. She drowns in this sea of business. These places had always remained out of reach. Joan opened a door for her.

Glowing in the edge of the room, Vera imagines this to be a Hollywood fantasy. Unintentionally, she spins to avoid knocking shoulders with someone. She shrinks down to old heights. Brimming with gaiety, she wears an A-line, turquoise cocktail dress. The silhouette reveals a modest portion of flesh, her sculpted arms on display.

The Governor senses eyes upon her. There is a coldness - a _stiffness_ \- to her. Perfect reverence is embedded within Vera’s stare. Idol worship is dangerous at this age.

“What are you doing?” Joan inquires, as if a spell is being cast on her, though she has neither time for faith nor fantasy.

Joan casts aside love. It’s foolish, it’s flimsy, it’s immaterial. However, she recognizes that this is Vera at her most beautiful when she’s wondrous and full of giddy joy.

A critical mind maps out the end game. Vera was the type of person to imagine herself the heroine of a paperback novel. Her trust, for Joan, never wavers. It makes Vera malleable, easy to twist and mold. She fits around her finger and then some.

“Regarding you,” her Deputy answers with a crooked grin, hair frizzy around the temples. Her ignorance grants her innocence.

_Hm._

Dressed in the splendid fashion of a distinguished gentlewoman, a well-tailored suit and a violently violet tie compliment her edges, her curves, her discerning tallness. Joan keeps her crowning glory secured in place, bun up.

“Plenty of time for that,” she jests as a torturous tease. “Pay more attention to your surroundings, Vera. You would take care to realize that you are in a house of wolves.”

The tips of her ears redden, the flirtation thwarting the stern austerity of her superior. So desperately she wanted to call this love. Yet, it remained an unexplainable thing. The concept tears down as many walls as it puts them up.

“Oh, but Joan. I’m honoured to be here. In awe, really,” she starts to ramble.

The full force of Ferguson’s influence has yet to be seen. Evidently, she requires a little guidance. A gentle push past her mother’s passing. Again, Joan goads. Fingertips graze an exposed shoulder. She meanders up to tuck pack a stray curl.

Between them, there exists the temporary intimacy in a crowded room. Her perfume could suffocate the room. She smells of rose infused with leather or maybe Vera makes it up.

“Go on. Mingle. I’ll be waiting,” she feeds her a hollow promise, her breath akin to perdition.

Vera colors even more profusely. Scampering off, the heels give her some height, but no ego. She nurses the same glass of pinot until the celebratory champagne breaks out. A dreamer studies the ripples pooling.

Fearful of making a fool of herself, she chooses to linger away from the hustle and bustle. Her lipstick leaves a ghostly print embedded on the wine glass. Attributed to poor fortune, Director Derek Channing finds her. Oozing false pleasantries, he eats her up with his eyes, a smarmy grin in place. All the wolf needs to do is smack his lips. 

“Hello, Vera. You look _stunning_.”

Vera’s skin crawls. Goosebumps prick her coltish arms and legs. She manages an awkward smile, returns the gesture rather cordially, and grips her glass a little tighter.

Witnessing this collision, the Governor takes stoic charge. A cold, possessive streak gnaws at her insides. Gracefully, she slips into conversation. Derek’s pride bloats him. Her lips twitch at the dirty offense. He’s a miserable excuse of a man. Most are, Joan finds.

“Ah, Vera. There you are.”

Thankful for Joan’s interception, her shoulders lower. She captures her dove, her prized possession to be molded and groomed for succession. Channing’s obsession harbors within his wrathful stare. History lives between them. Too much bad blood and rot.

“Careful, Vera,” Channing jests. “Stick by Joan and you’ll turn to dust.”

“Enjoy your solitude and debauchery, Derek,” she snarls his name despite keeping her tone level, frigid. The Governor conducts herself with the civility of a judge. The razor glint in her eyes betrays.

By the crook of her arm, Joan leads her away. The bareness of her back catches Joan’s observant eye. She spies every notch in her spine alongside the slight curvature. Her body isn’t perfect. Those birdlike bones could crush within her grip.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Vera insists as she chews on her lips.

“I noticed your discomfort from the opposite side of the room. You needn’t apologize for the cruelty of another.”

Such a tender mark leaves behind a stain. She nearly forgets her hold on her Deputy, releasing her promptly thereafter. High strung, fraught with tension, and entirely too dependent, Vera will never leave her. Two flutes of champagne are retrieved from a silver platter. With a raised brow, Joan extends this offering. Though unspoken, they speak the language of prison hymns.

 _Clink_. They toast to their working repertoire, the namelessness that manifests itself. Back to their assigned seating, they go. Side by side, they listen to the announcer. The champagne tickles Vera’s button nose and fizzles down her taut throat.

At last, the maestro is summoned to the front and center of the room. Nobly, Joan Ferguson stands behind a pedestal, shakes hands with a row of dirty men. Her cheek twitches though a camera cannot catch the subtle movement. She looks forward to cleansing herself of filth. For now, Wentworth’s Governor accepts prestige in a plaque on behalf of the Victorian Government. Destined to accompany her other badges of honor, Joan already knows a place in her office for the award.

At the table, Vera dreams of receiving the award for Outstanding Correctional Service Employees. She fantasizes that pretentious piece of glass with her name carved in.

A paragon of order and discipline slams down her gavel reproach. Joan addresses her speech to her court. Enamored, Vera clings to every word. _If only I could speak like that._ In the guise of a bad habit, her elbow rests on the table, palm cradling her cheek. This is Joan’s kingdom, her mighty realm, and Vera just so happens to feel like a visitor. 

An iron reputation matches her steadfast resolve. Although she may be the most hated in the nation, she receives a standing ovation. Her loyal devotee is amongst the sheep. She claps the loudest of all.

Once the applause simmer down and a break is in demand, Vera finds a reason to grab a breath of fresh air. She brings her champagne with her. Out on the balcony, a shadow closes in. She senses a presence behind her. Unfurled fingers reach for the nape of her neck, for the hair collected and piled high in girlish curls. Virginal naivety makes her as pure as a wedding dress. She has a matchstick neck made to be broken.

“Hello, Vera.”       

“—Joan.”      

From Governor to Miss Ferguson to _Joan_ , her bedroom name.

She pivots on heel, her body resting against the ledge, but never falling over. Joan could confess to bloody murder and still Vera would look up to her. Blind trust confuses itself for adoration. Perhaps it’s the other way around.

“I, well, I couldn’t handle the crowd.” A swallow. “It’s all a bit too much for me,” she confesses in an airy voice, her stammer threatening to ruin the moment. She’ll chew herself up about this at midnight like some forsaken Cinderella.

She can never tell what Joan is thinking. That kills her.

Buzzing from executive decision, she basks in the glow of her win. Her pride, however, has been digested in moderation to match her fair consumption of vodka and soda water. A finger wags mid-air.

“I’ll let you in on a secret: I care for it little.”

At ease, a lopsided smile crosses her lips. There’s a cello that replaces her heart; it plays most beautifully if you stroke the strings accordingly.

“You’re missing something,” her right-hand chimes.

In a bout of confidence that ebbs and flows, she wets her lips before advancing. A corsage with a purple ribbon is fixed to her wrist. She unravels the pretty bow. Her white offering is an aster intertwined with a mauve carnation. Mum never taught her the secret language of flowers; Vera learned for herself.

“What are you doing?” She inquiries huskily, ever watchful.

By attaching the flower to her lapel, Vera entertains the shadow play projection of a life shared together. Maybe it’s the champagne, the wine, the hidden dose of courage, but Vera pulls her down. Those slim, derisive fingers lace to crown. It feels like a death sentence.

“Nothing,” she answers sweetly, glowing in the moonlight.

A hard-hearted woman resembles a matryoshka doll, harboring all these things inside. Joan’s lips twitch. Briefly, her mind recalls the old wives take in which the sensation means a kiss will soon be received. She dismisses this.

They linger outside, Channing forgotten in the shadows, the award sitting on the displaced table. Joan finds herself leaning into the touch, stooping down to a different level.

She wants her, wanted to fuck her, wants to rule with her, wants to be with her always.

Hunger rubs them raw.


End file.
